Lost and Found
by Robin1231
Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."
1. Prologue

_**Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."**_

_**Rating: T**_

_**Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)**_

**Lost and Found**

_Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony_

_Please come around_

_Something's been lost that cannot be found._

Clint's breath came in harsh gasps, punctuated sporadically with the gurgle of viscous blood in his chest. Viciously, irritably, he spat a glob of dark blood that had risen in his throat to the ground below him. Not for the first time, he strained vainly against the ropes that pinned his arms to his side, grunting softly in pain as the fibers bit into his flesh. With a defeated yell against the dirty cloth gag, he slumped forward against his bonds in the bolted metal chair, panting heavily. He felt his hands trembling at his sides from blood loss and felt the slow glug of his wounds pouring from his side, seeping through the makeshift bandage, crudely tied across his stomach. To prolong the torture, no doubt. He felt…tired. He was never tired.

God, he wished Coulson would just hurry the fuck up.

His eyes snapped open. He hadn't remembered shutting them at all. A soft squeal of iron accompanied by the clamor of boots on the metal—_men's dress shoes, size 10, patent leather, well worn on the heels, _he thought to himself numbly—alerted Clint to their return. As much as he would have liked to proudly stare them down, fearless and defiant, he just couldn't. the fatigue and blood loss rocked his chin down onto his chest. He felt suddenly cold. Blood ran from his open mouth, onto his bound knees in sticky strands, pooling in his lap. Again, his eyes clamped shut in pain. The footsteps echoed through the metal room, through the sluggish, cotton-lined cavern of Clint's brain. His eyes opened. The overhead lamp swayed with the waves, separated into three, and then remerged. His head was tipped back.

"Christ, Barton!" A muffled, distorted voice cut through into Clint's addled mind. It seemed…familiar. Comforting, honestly. Suddenly, the pressure holding his arms was gone and he fell forward with a jerk as he made his final bid for freedom. He fell into the soft-hardness of a man's chest where he was pinned gently with a forearm across his back in an odd semblance of an embrace.

"Hey! Kid, easy now. Calm down. You're okay." For some reason, _that_ voice made it true. He stopped struggling and rested against the silky fabric of a white dress shirt. He was overwhelmed by the childish urge to apologize—cheekily of course—for staining it with his blood, but for some reason, his voice wouldn't work. After straining for a moment, he settled for just lying prone against this familiarly-foreign chest, trembling from exhaustion and pain. He opened his eyes again. Black lined the edges of his vision, but it slid back into focus and sharpened on the man above him. It was Phil, he realized suddenly. He then realized Phil was still talking and refocused on his voice. The sound returned with a _pop._

"—alright, okay? The chopper's coming soon. We got them buddy. _You _got them, alright? Goddammit, I'm so fucking sorry Clint," Phil's voice sharpened and then broke off. He began to frown and Clint wondered what he was doing wrong. It suddenly dawned on him that his own mouth was moving and his left arm was reaching. He focused and finally began to splutter through the blood that caked his lips. He grasped Phil's suit jacket lapels with a shaking hand, desperately.

"My-my bow Phil," he forced out, words laced with pain. "G-get my bow." Phil's head snapped in the direction Clint was reaching. Gently, he laid Clint's head down onto the floor and rushed over to the dark corner where Clint's longbow lay in two pieces, callously tossed among a pile of dead bodies and spent bullets. It was stained with its owner's blood. Clint's eyes glazed over as Phil scrambled back, placing the shattered wood into his outstretched hand. With a monumental effort, he pulled the weapon over his heart and knew Phil recognized the old-time warrior's gesture.

"No. No no no kid, you aren't going anywhere yet. You still owe me." He grabbed at Clint's free hand.

"Tw-twenty, twenty bucks yeah?" Clint forced out breathily between clenched teeth.

"You're goddamn right kid. You owe me twenty bucks." Clint laughed slightly with Phil before reaching up to the chain around his neck. He couldn't reach. Phil saw his distress and pulled the pendant from his neck. There was a silver medallion of a saint Phil couldn't place and a lockbox key.

"I-in my apartment. It's yours." Phil's head shook violently.

"That's not funny and you know it."

"Sorry Ph-Phil. I-I tried."

"Dammit Clint, the medics are almost here! Hold on! Fucking fight back, don't go down like this!" He squeezed Clint's hand and pulled the younger man into his arms. "Since when did Clint Barton give up so easy?"

"It's—it's okay Phil. I'm not scared," Clint's voice was quiet—unlike anything Phil had ever heard. He leaned his tired face onto Phil's black tie. "I'm okay to die Phil."

"No you're goddamn not! You're just a fucking kid! You're 19 years old, asshole, you can't be done living yet." Clint lifted his old blue-grey eyes to Phil's and leveled his gaze through the blood that had oozed from the laceration on his forehead.

"It's been a hell of a ride," he rasped, lifting a bloodied fist. He could have sworn Phil had tears in his eyes as he gently rapped his own fist against Clint's knuckles after a beat of strained silence. But he knew that was impossible. The stoic 27 year old would never show that amount of emotion. "You-you're the brother I've always wanted." In his head, Clint mentally berated himself for being so sappy, but considering how he was on his deathbed and all, and the way Phil pressed Clint's hand against his own forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, he knew it was the right thing to say. "Thanks for giving me a shot, old man." His ears were ringing now; he fought against the blackness that threatened to overtake his vision.

"You dumb bastard," Phil's inexplicably thick voice anchored Clint once more. "Always so fucking dramatic. The chopper will be here any minute. I can—I can hear it already." Clint knew that was a blatant lie. Phil never lied—that was one of the things Clint liked most about him. "Just wait a little while longer, hey? Please." Phil also never begged. "I can't lose you. Fury would have my ass."

As he always did when it came to Phil, Clint relented and inclined his head, eyes sliding shut. "Okay. I'll try." And they were silent, Phil pressing his hand over Clint's stomach wound and stroking the thick blonde hair with the other, Clint pretending he could still feel his fingers. Blood continued to pool underneath both of them, seeping onto the metal floor of the storage container from Clint's broken body.

"Can we go to Boston when we get out of here?" The brokenness in Clint's voice surprised even himself. "Maybe—maybe catch a h-hockey game?" He was whispering by now and he didn't even know why.

"So you're telling me you've been over the whole goddamn planet, but you've never been to my hometown?" A gentle laugh slid out of Coulson's mouth, eliciting a small grin from Clint.

"Didn't—didn't know you're from Boston. You d-don't have the a-accent."

"I'm a secret agent Barton. Don't you think I'd be able to cover up an incredibly identifiable accent by now?" Clint shrugged and his lopsided grin grew. A shudder overtook him and he furrowed his brow in pain. Phil pulled him closer and whispered into his hair: "Yeah, buddy. We'll go catch a Bruins game." He could have said more after that, but Clint heard no more.

A sudden lightness took over Clint's mind. A sudden warmth spread through his bones. He opened his eyes. The container was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. A controlled thudding echoed through Clint's body, growing slower and more distorted. It was accompanied by the rush of coolness over his body, through his hair.

Phil's face was in his suddenly, and Clint wondered when he'd gotten there. He could no longer hear Phil as he talked, no matter how hard he focused. He thought he could see his lips say _Hold on._ A sudden spiraling feeling overtook his body and Phil wasn't there anymore. A cold feeling of terror washed over Clint, but he couldn't move at all. His breath grew ragged and pained. A white flash passed over his eyes and suddenly Phil was there again.

He knew he was about to die.

With an effort that shook the world around his ears, he grabbed the back of Phil's neck and pulled him down so he could speak.

"I knew you'd come for me," Clint managed in a shocking moment of pure clarity before slipping, past Coulson's shouting face and through his fingers into a space that was simultaneously light and black and silent and punctuated by the faraway sound of his handler's panicked yells.

.

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_**AN: Hey guys! I know both gentlemen are pretty OOC in this chapter, but hey, Clint's dying! This is meant to be a very short prologue to a longer story about Clint's introduction to SHIELD, so please, review and let me know if it's worth moving forward with or if I should just leave it alone. Thank you so much and as always, any critique is welcome!**_

_**-Robin1231**_


	2. And it all Came Tumbling Down

_**Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."**_

_**Rating: T**_

_**Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)**_

**Lost and Found**

Chapter 1—_And it all Came Tumbling Down_

Clint lazily stirred the steaming mug of black coffee with a plastic stir-stick—not that he had to, strictly out of habit. He, by rule, always put at least four sugar packets into his midday cup, but somehow, he just couldn't force himself to dump the cheap imitation crap into the bitter liquid. In his left hand, he held a slightly gnawed-on old school yellow pencil, twirling it aimlessly over a blank steno pad. The coffee shop buzzed with life. In each of the corners, couples held hands surreptitiously under tables, reveling in the self constructed images of rebellion. Next to the window, the girl with the teal scarf scribbled furiously onto a notebook. She pushed her massive, horn-rimmed glasses further up on the bridge of her nose. Clint studied the pencil strokes from across the room. A wry grin crept out from behind his apathetic mask as he read her romance novel as she wrote it. _Steamy_, he thought and laughed to himself as she took out a plastic inhaler and drew in the mist with a pronounced breath. Seemingly of their own accord, Clint's eyes drifted past the aspiring novelist to the window she sat beneath. On the cracked pavement, Chris stood, bouncing impatiently. Noticing Clint's attention, he jerkily motioned for him to come outside. Clint sighed and, slower than usual (strictly to piss the other man off), rose. He drained his coffee in one long drag and placed the empty mug in the busboy's plastic tub, slipping a twenty dollar bill into the young man's pocket, and made for the door. He stopped just before the entrance, ignoring Chris' flustered impatience and strode back to the girl with the teal scarf. He cleared his throat beside her, eliciting a small squeak, exceptionally reminiscent of a mouse.

"Sorry, sorry. Just thought you should know. You spelled clandestine wrong." The owlish look faded into a scowl.

"No I didn't," she proclaimed, scanning the page. "I think I would know how to sp—" she broke off as she turned the page and found her error. Clint grinned at her as her face melted into a look of apprehension and the slight traces of fear. "How—how did—" Clint winked.

"Have a good day."

Ignoring the distressed noises coming from the girl's throat, Clint spun on his heel and strode through the glass door. The cheap silver bells tied to the door handle jingled furiously at his exit. Clint turned left down the street, away from the still-bouncing-Chris, to the traffic post at the corner. With an air of complete nonchalance, he pressed the walk button on the post with his right thumb, and then jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. Chris jogged up beside him.

"Hey! What the hell man, you knew I was there!" The walk indicator flashed and Clint walked forward without even so much as a glance at the short teen to his left.

"You're too jumpy Chris," he drawled. "Too obvious, hey? Need to tone it down a bit." Clint's tone was stern, but the spark in his blue-grey eyes betrayed his levity.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you've told me before." Chris ran his hand through dark hair, recognizing his friend's mood. "I just can't help it when it comes to this ya know?" He slapped his jacket for emphasis, raising his eyebrows at Clint through scraggy bangs that reached below his eyes. Clint blew a breath through clenched teeth.

"I dunno Chris," he started slowly, leading the two up a stoop, into a dilapidated apartment complex. "It's been too soon since my last job. Trail isn't even cold yet." A queasy feeling pounded in Clint's chest. Guilt. He pushed it away with practiced ease as the two strode through a green door that he unlocked.

"Doesn't matter Barton, you know that." Chris collapsed onto a dusty couch and absently picked at the loose threads on the arm of the sofa. "This comes straight from the Boss. Turns out he has a rat." Clint clicked his tongue disparagingly and leaned forward onto the countertop in the kitchen. The cheap plastic bit into his forearm. He sighed and hung his head.

"Who's that fucking stupid," he muttered more to himself than Chris, but the other man responded nonetheless.

"Apparently, this fucker." He tossed a manila folder onto the counter and then pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. With an apathetic eyebrow raise, Clint picked up the folder and flipped through grainy, amateur surveillance photos and hastily scrawled addresses. He frowned deeply and ran a hand through his long hair.

"Name."

"Don't worry about it."

"I said name, Chris."

"I don't know it Clint, honest." Clint let out a disgusted snort and pushed the papers away. He folded his arms over his chest and turned to the fridge.

"Then you can tell the Boss to go screw himself." Chris shot to his feet, swelling in an emotion that Clint couldn't quite identify—anger, fear?

"Don't be an idiot Barton! He knows where you live." A beat of silence. "He knows where I live. He knows everything. Please Clint. It's not like this guy's a saint."

Clint blew out a breath of air. He looked up at Chris through sandy bangs with a steady, unnerving gaze.

"Get outta here. Got some work to do."

-Break—Break—Break—

Richard Taylor was nothing more than a small time thug. Just a delivery boy wrapped in the vast network of dealers under the Boss' control. He lived on 32nd and Jefferson, tucked in a little apartment building on the wrong side of the tracks. Bums lined the streets outside shops, whores with jingling bangles and overpowering perfume smoked against telephone poles, dirty children with torn shoes played cops and robbers in the streets. The air was alive with delinquency and illegality and it suited Clinton Francis Barton just fine. Sitting atop a crumbling brick rooftop, black neckerchief tied across his nose and mouth, he didn't move an inch. His eyes were locked on the windowpane 3 stories below, across the street.

It was midday on a Saturday when he nocked an arrow across his longbow, traces of purple paint visible through the cracks of the old wood. Traces of a life, long since past.

His target suddenly came into play; little more than the back of a head seated in the plush of the torn armchair beneath the apartment window. Clint slowly allowed the sound of the city to die away, sinking into the murmur of his heartbeat, distorting beyond all semblance of recognition.

The tunnel of his focus honed in on the little room across the alleyway. His breathing filled his ears. With a slight draw of air, Clint pulled the bowstring to rest in the meat of his cheekbone, the wood of the frame digging into his calloused palm. A total sense of calm washed over his body. A prayer, the same mantra as always, floated from his consciousness into the heaven that he believed so ardently in and knew he would never see.

Then he froze.

A small boy suddenly filled the top corner of his vision and his focus came crashing down to his feet. He watched as Richard Taylor's figure rose in malice and clenched his jaw as a violent backhand crashed across the boy's face.

_Daddy, Daddy! Stop!_

_Did I tell you to fucking talk?!_

_You're killing him Harold!_

_Shut UP!_

Suddenly, Clint was descending from his loft in a near dream-like state, shimmying from the fire escape before he even recognized that he was moving. His bow was suddenly tucked up his left sleeve as he stalked across the street, ignoring the honks and shouts and squealing of tires as the automobiles swerved to avoid Clint's tunnel vision. He stood numbly at the entrance to the apartment building with his hands at his side.

Slowly, Clint reached up and removed the neckerchief from his face and wrapped it tightly around his fist. His face was expressionless, near robotic as he smashed in the window and buzzed himself in.

_Barney, we gotta get outta here._

_I know, Clint, I'll figure something out, okay buddy?_

_Please don't leave me here._

The hallway outside Taylor's flat was tight and dimly lit. Clint moved to the green door, bow now slid from his sleeve and gripped in a tight fist. The apartment was silent, save for the crackling of a poorly connected television. The stench of booze and vomit wafted from behind the flimsy plywood. The sound of a _smack_ reverberated through Clint's mind. It never occurred to him that memories could make sounds.

With a practiced ease, he picked the lock and the door swung open. His breathing was deafening as he stalked into the living room. The Wheel of Fortune was on.

"What the fuck?" Richard Taylor bellowed as Clint pulled the bowstring and pulled the suddenly nocked arrow at the man's left eye socket, suddenly less than three inches away. A flash of blue-grey covered Taylor's brown eyes and a familiar pressure gripped Clint's chest. His face hardened into a hateful mask.

"Fuck you, Dad," he managed to croak into a hoarse whisper and he himself didn't realize what he meant.

"What the—" The man slumped forward as the arrow embedded itself into his eye, through his skull, pinning the dead man to the armchair behind. All Clint heard was the static of the television over the drip of blood. With a jerk, he pulled the arrow from the bloody hole, ignoring the squelch of gushing brain matter. He whirled around as a piercing scream rent the air. The little boy stood in the doorframe, a split lip and darkening bruise marring his face. Clint's grip tightened and the bloody arrow snapped, splinters grazing his calloused palm.

The hardened professional ordered him to string the bow again.

_No witnesses. No compromise. No. No. You can't afford to start again._

But his hands were already raised in surrender. The little boy had streaked to his father's arm, shaking the limp limb and suddenly Clint wondered where his mother was.

"Daddy!" he screamed. "Daddy!" The word sounded so familiar and so foreign. Clint was perched on the open window. He looked back and for the first time since becoming a mercenary, faltered. The little boy looked back at him. Clint numbly dropped the splintered arrow into the alleyway below. And the little boy with blood still streaming from his split lower lip looked at Clint with rage in his eyes and screamed—a heartbreakingly lost and alone note that Clint _remembered_.

Clint fled, the sound ringing in his ears and _MURDERER_ tattooed on his heart.

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_**AN: Hey guys! Sorry for taking so long to update. Thank you so much for reading and all your reviews! You are all awesome. As always, any critique is welcome!**_

_**-Robin1231**_


	3. The Resiliency of Children

_**Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."**_

_**Rating: T**_

_**Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)**_

**Lost and Found**

Chapter 2—_The Resiliency of Children_

His new shoes cracked on the gravelly pavement, the sound echoing through the cordoned off alleyway. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm, and then dragged his hand over his tired face and eyes. God, he needed a shave. A small crowd gathered outside the garish yellow tape, rumors and speculations flowing from mouths stained with cigarette smoke and alcohol. He straightened his tie and stalked towards the scene, towards the cluster of police officers in blue, anticipating and dreading the inescapable territorial pissing match he was about to step in. He assumed the mask of the cold and indifferent federal agent, adopting the mannerisms he had been so ardently drilled in. The lead detective noticed him first, an expression of suspicion and thinly veiled disdain plastered on his face. His posture changed entirely, chest suddenly puffed out to capacity, arms folded, and head gesturing for the sergeant to turn.

"Christ fuckin' almighty," the older gentleman with a rather magnificent mustache began. "This is our fuckin' case Fed. He got here _hours_ ago. You think ya can just walk in here and push us out of our own jurisdiction?" The sergeant's mustache quivered in anger.

"No," the man began quietly before pulling a shiny badge from his suit pocket, flipping it open. "But this does. Now gentlemen are we going to have a problem?" he asked evenly.

"Fuck yeah we're gonna have a problem!" the detective exploded. "This is _our_ turf. _We_ answered this call! _We_ did all the work and _you_ come in here and expect us to just hand everything over to you?" The suit pretended to think over the outburst. God, he felt like such a tool."

"Yes." He stated simply and it was obvious neither of the officers were expecting such an undiplomatic answer.

"Well—" the mustached sergeant began before he was cut off.

"Gentlemen, let me explain how this works. You may have jurisdiction over your beat. You may hold control over this block and the next. But the federal government holds control over every single city in the country, this shithole included. See, when we decide to give a shit about your little neighborhood, well, it becomes our jurisdiction. So quite frankly, each and every one of you works for me. If I wanted to, I could ask Shirley Temple here," he clapped the detective on the shoulder. "To go skip down to the local coffee shop to fetch me a cup and there's not a damn thing either of you could do about it. Now, I so hoped we could all get along, sing Kumbaya, exchange phone numbers and get together for a book club on Sundays, but you have managed to piss me off by just standing here, so I'm afraid that's just not gonna happen. Now, you all can have the scene back once I'm finished vetting it. Tell you what; I'll even let you keep investigating! Not just because I'm a nice guy—I'm a nice guy right?—but because I have so much faith in your incompetence that I know nothing you uncover will ever be a threat to national security. Now, have a nice day gentlemen. I'll let you know when you can have the scene back." The sergeant's face was filled with an unfathomable rage.

"What's your fucking name, I'll fucking have you reported!"

The suit smirked behind his sunglasses. He stalked past the men and, without turning tossed over his shoulder: "Name's Coulson. Special Agent Phil Coulson. Good luck contacting SHEILD. Our secretaries suck."

—Break—Break—Break—

Clint was shaking when he burst into his apartment building. The panic that had risen in his chest as he stood over Richard Taylor had not been quelled. Blood and splinters clung to the skin of his hands.

"Stupid," he whispered to himself. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_."

His hands fumbled with his keys. His door swung open and Clint melted into the doorway, disappearing into his sanctuary. Tripping over his apartment grade carpet, he fell against the kitchen counter, pulling himself to the sink. It had been less than an hour—if his panic-addled mind didn't fool him—but the blood and brain matter trapped in the cotton of his sleeve had dried. The sink was suddenly on and his hands were thrust under the stream. Pinkish water flowed down the drain. With a strangled cry, Clint tore off the black long sleeved shirt and slid down to the linoleum floor; sink still on and the cabinets catching on the knotted scar of the small of his back on the way down.

_You little shit!_

_I'm sorry Daddy, I'm sorry!_

_Shut up!_

_Run Clint, run! Go to the barn!_

Memories barraged the man. His breathing grew sporadic. With trembling hands, he clutched the sides of his head, covering his ears. Soft sobs bubbled from his lips as he rocked back and forth.

_When Barney came softly into the barn, Clint almost didn't recognize him through the bruises on his face._

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid."

_Give me a hand up Clint? You're a real good climber, you know?_

_I'm sorry Barney, I didn't mean to._

_Hey, quit cryin'. Just makes him mad, you know? C'mere. Don't be sorry. It's my job to protect you. You're my little bro._

_I'm scared Barney._

Clint forced himself to his feet. Staggering down the hall, he approached the bathroom, weaving unsteadily. Without bothering to remove his jeans, he pushed through the curtains into the shower and pulled the faucet on. Cold water struck him with a fervor that again pulled his breath into a gasp.

_Clint when you get scared, go up high. You're a real good climber, remember? No one can get you up here. Climb high and don't look down. There ain't nothing for you down below, you know? Never go down._

Clint couldn't remember how long he sat in the porcelain tub, legs outstretched, head tipped back. The water collected in his hair and in the hollows of his eye sockets. His breathing had long since evened out, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Then he sighed, droplets of water spraying from his exhaled breath. He reached up over his head and turned the shower off. For a moment, he sat in the slowly draining puddle of water before he rose silently. Grabbing a towel from the cabinet at the door, Clint dried off his dark blond hair. Numbly, he changed into dry clothes and dragged himself to the mattress that lay on the floor. His eyelids fluttered shut against the soft glow of his bedside lamp. He slept.

_They were driving to church when it happened. Even at eight, Clint couldn't understand why his father felt so compelled to go to church when he never put any of it into practice. Clint and Barney sat side-by-side in the back of the small car, hands folded on their laps, not daring to fidget. Edith Barton sat stiffly in the passenger seat, pocketbook clutched in her gloved hands. She was wearing the yellow dress that Clint loved. Clint loved to believe that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Barney would then sullenly point out the bruises concealed by layers of caked on make-up._

_The catalyst was something so simple. A too-heavy foot on the brakes. Clint was too busy trying to stay perfectly still that the sudden deceleration jerked him forward in his seat. His sneakered foot connected solidly with the driver's seat. A red face spun around. A meaty hand reached around an pulled the child forward in the empty divide between the driver and passenger seats. The car was too old for seatbelts. Edith was too afraid to move._

You little shit!_ An open palm slashed across Clint's cheek, drawing beads of blood from his lip. He was then tossed back in the seat and the car moved forward._

_The car was too old for seatbelts. Clint was too afraid to cry. Edith was too afraid to move. Barney wasn't afraid anymore._

_It happened so fast. Barney pulled a garden rock from underneath the seat in front of him. With all the strength he could muster, the twelve year old slammed the piece of garden stone across his father's temple. It was enough, but the stone connected twice more. Clint's and Edith's screams mingled in the air as the deadweight pressed into the gas pedal, sending the car careening forward. Edith leaned into her husband's lap and pulled on the steering wheel, desperately trying to control the weaving automobile. Barney pulled Clint onto the floor, pressing himself on top of the boy, tucking the little blond head into his chest. Clint could feel the older boy trembling._

_The car smashed into the traffic post at top speed and skidded round in circles despite Edith's best attempts. Clint and Barney were tossed about. Barney was thrown out through the opposite side rear door from the impact, leaving Clint exposed. With the car's last jerk and splinter, his back erupted into a flash of white hot pain. He cried out but no one heard. After a moment of stillness, the little boy reached back and touched the small of his back. Blood welled around the shard of glass embedded in the young flesh. Black clouded his vision as he crawled into the relatively undamaged backseat._

_Harold Barton lay dead upon the steering wheel, face an unrecognizable bloody mess. The coroner never thought to examine the abrasions on the man's face, automatically attributing them to a simple automobile collision. He would be remembered as an upstanding citizen in the _Waverly Herald_._

_The last sight Clint caught before sinking into unconsciousness was bloodstained blond hair on the dashboard. His beautiful mother. Her sightless blue eyes looked back at him a she lay atop the hood of the car, thrown through the windshield with such a force that her neck was broken on impact. The grotesque hand of fate snagged her yellow dress on the jagged glass, preventing the body from rolling off the crumpled hood. The only time the pastor was correct by the Barton family was when he proclaimed Edith Barton's soul free in death._

_The headlines would read: Orphans Survive Deadly Waverly Crash._

_Clint would read: You can never tell, you know?_

—Break—Break—Break—

Phil hadn't looked at the body for more than sixty seconds before he realized he wouldn't find any trace of the assassin on the body. He clicked his tongue in annoyance as he realized he was dealing with a professional. He rose to his feet and approached the wide-eyed CSIs. _Lab rats_ he thought to himself as they watched him warily.

"Body's yours," he proclaimed. "Let me talk to the boy."

Tanner Taylor was the only irregularity in the profile, based solely off the fact that he was alive. The cynic in him wondered why the assassin didn't merely kill the only witness. The optimist in him hoped this meant the killer had a conscious. It was always easier to trace good intentions

Tanner was magnificently small with a pale face and a darkening bruise. Phil felt his heart clench. The boy was seated in a couch next to a female detective. She spoke to him in low tones and held his little hand. Noticing Phil's gaze, she squeezed the boy's fingers softly and rose to meet the agent. Intelligence held in her eyes exceeded that of her colleagues outside. Phil decided he would be civil. He extended a hand.

"Special Agent Phil Coulson."

"Detective Maria Hill." Her voice was dry and her handshake firm.

"Can I talk to the boy?" Maria crossed her arms over her chest, fixing Phil with a look sorely reminiscent of his mother when she caught him playing ball in the house.

"He's pretty severely traumatized Coulson."

"I'll be gentle."

"And I'll be watching." Phil inclined his head and conceded. Both adults approached the sniffling boy who looked up at them. Maria reclaimed her place beside the child on the couch. "Tanner, this is Phil. He wants to ask you some questions. You up to that?" To the surprise of both adults, the boy nodded. Phil shot the detective a look. _The resiliency of children._

"Did you see the man who did this buddy?"

"Yes," came the small reply.

"What can you tell me about him?" Tanner wasn't crying anymore and that thought wrenched Phil's heart.

"He had hair like mine only longer. His eyes were blue." Phil waited. "He shot Daddy with a—with an arrow." Phil blinked but refused to let the surprise show on his face. "He was sad." Maria frowned.

"What do you mean Tanner?"

"He cried when he looked at me." Phil was about to ask a question when the apartment door was pushed open, inducing a henhouse-like commotion as the officers converged on the intruder. A man in an expensive suit stood in the doorway, an unassuming and _normal_ figure, yet imposing all the same. Phil rose, eliminating the line of sight between Tanner and the man, but the suit didn't even seem to acknowledge the child at all.

"Who's the Fed?" His voice was gravelly and Phil didn't like it one bit.

"I'm sorry to say you're not really my type." A greasy smile crossed the man's face and with a jolt, Phil realized who he was facing.

"Richard was an associate of mine. I will be handling the investigation. Your services will no longer be needed." Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"Now why do you possibly believe you can intimidate me, Mr…?" Both men knew the trailing question was merely a formality.

"Not intimidate. Just persuade."

"I'm afraid I'm not an exceptionally persuadable man. You may as well just turnaround and walk out the door now."

"All in due time Special Agent Coulson."

"You know my name. How sweet." There was a very long silence, thick and knotted. The two men stood toe to toe, both completely expressionless and perhaps the man knew he had found his match in Special Agent Phil Coulson.

"Your sarcasm is biting," he said finally, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "And it seems I am out of time. I do hope we will meet again Agent Coulson. And I do hope you'll leave me and my associates to rouse this criminal from his nest." Phil's eyes narrowed.

"Like hell." The man chuckled and turned towards the door. As he reached the entrance, he turned and locked his green eyes on Phil's blue. They were cold.

"It's a shame you couldn't find the murder weapon." Then the door was shut. A beat of silence rushed through the room as the universe caught its breath. Maria broke it.

"Who the hell was that?"

"The Boss." Without further explanation, Phil pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket and made for the door.

"Phil?" The voice was small. Phil turned back to Tanner, a question in his face. "He had a necklace." Phil silently raised an eyebrow. "Like the ones soldiers wear, you know?" A pang echoed in the agent's chest. He nodded and slipped out the door past the freshly widowed mother bursting into the apartment. He flipped open his cell phone and made a gut decision.

"Nick? It's Phil. We have a problem."

"And antagonizing the police sergeant isn't one? Goddammit Phil—"

"It wasn't random. Professional hit, Nick. It's a soldier and the Boss is looking for him." A pause. "I think we can use him, Director. Didn't kill the kid."

"Well, you'll just have to find him first."


	4. Making the Jump

_**Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."**_

_**Rating: T**_

_**Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)**_

**Lost and Found**

Chapter 3—_Making the Jump_

Clint sat up suddenly. The shadows moving on the walls from the setting sun traced foreboding patterns in the unease of the archer's mind. His severe eyes traveled the expanse of the room from the corner in which he had moved the secondhand mattress. There was a silence that permeated the apartment. The constant hum of the refrigerator was absent, as was the nearly imperceptible buzz of electricity that only Clint really perceived.

He rose slowly, slipping his hunting knife from underneath his pillow into his back pocket. As he passed through the bedroom door, his left hand pulled the handgun from behind the picture frame. He slunk into the kitchen, silently padding over the linoleum and to the carpeted entranceway. The room was completely dark at this point—quiet and dark and _wrong._

Clint slowly stalked to his front door. Through the peephole, the hallway was dark. A sudden sinking feeling washed over his body as his bare toes sunk into a sodden patch of carpet. He slowly bent down and brushed his fingers through the fibers. A viscous liquid seeped from under the door. Holding his hand to catch the thin rays of silvered moonlight, his gut clenched.

It was blood.

He grasped the doorknob and swiftly jerked the door open. A body fell inside.

Chris had been leaning against the door, Clint surmised, but it was very apparent he had been staged. Bruises, burns, and contusions littered the teen's body, twisting the features of his face into grotesque contortions. Every finger was broken, thumbs severed, gunshot wounds to both kneecaps. Bile rose in Clint's throat. Guilt and grief slammed into him, but he brushed it off out of necessity. His eyes narrowed.

A single broken arrow protruded from Chris' forehead.

"We don't leave loose ends." A raspy voice from the stairway whirled Clint on his heel, firing his handgun in the same fluid motion. The bullets glanced off the police-grade riot shield the Boss was holding. Clint froze, eyes locked on the older man.

A strange feeling, resurfacing from beneath the glass of his past, coursed through his veins and he remembered it was fear.

With the solemn incline of his head, the Boss slid the door shut and the echoing THUD of the door's lock sounded through the deserted hallway. A shockwave rolled through Clint's body as he realized the entire _building_ was deserted.

In a flurry of decisive motion, Clint threw himself back into his apartment, pulling Chris' body into the room behind. The cloying smell of gasoline permeated the room from below.

"Stupid," Clint whispered as he pulled the curtains from his window and, incapable of stopping himself even in his panic, placed the heavy fabric over the broken body of his best and only friend. He could feel the crackle and crumble of the building beneath as a fire was lit.

He nearly flew back into his bedroom, stumbling as sudden explosions rocked the foundations of the apartment building, five stories below. He skidded to a stop at the closet door and wrenched it open. Smoke began to permeate his apartment walls. Heat began to sting his eyes; sweat began to run. He coughed briefly, pulled out his longbow with a full quiver of arrows, and shoved everything into a black duffel that lay already open for emergencies.

The popping and cracking of wood and plaster echoed louder as the gasoline accelerated flames pulled themselves closer, licking the floorboards beneath Clint's feet. Sirens sounded from far. Clint cursed them. Wetting his black bandana, Clint dashed back to the doorframe, tying the sodden fabric over his mouth and nose. The hallway was thick with smoke. The ghastly orange crept up the locked stairway, propelling Clint back into the relative safety of his apartment. The smoke burned his lungs; he coughed violently, doubled up.

More explosions rocked the building and Clint knew it was going down. The world began to sway. There was no other option. Slinging the duffel across his shoulders, Clint pulled open the kitchen window and clambered out onto the fire escape. He hadn't taken more than one step down the ladder when a bullet from below slammed into his right shoulder, taking with it his breath.

Clint ducked as machine gun fire peppered the crumbling side of the building, hand pressed firmly against the gaping hole pushed into his shoulder. Suddenly, the bullets stopped ricocheting and Clint glanced up in time to see dark figures disappearing into the shadows away from the alleyway. His mind began to race, searching for _why_. Why run when they had him cornered? Why run if they could have just watched him burn? Why—

A bomb.

"Fuck." The simple curse was spat with venom along with a dark gob of blood, eliciting another groaned curse. His eyes flickered back and forth rapidly, searching frantically for a plan. His eyes locked onto the fire escape across the alleyway.

.

.

"_You're not gonna make the jump."_

"_Shut up Barney, I can do it. Why you gotta be so mean?"_

"_Cause you won't make it Clint. You're gonna jump, miss the damn bar AND the shot and you'll get all upset and cry the rest of the goddamn night. I don't wanna hear it. Can't you just stick with being NORMAL?"_

"_I'm gonna do it Barney. You're just mad that Jacques asked me and not YOU."_

"_Don't expect me to be there to pick you offa the ground."_

.

.

He made it.

Just barely, but he felt that, in the grand scheme of things, it still counted. He flew across the expanse of the alleyway, down another two stories before his outstretched hands caught the metal railing. A cry of pain pulled itself from his mouth, echoed by the explosion that resounded through the streets. As the shrapnel closed the gap, Clint pulled himself through a miraculously open window and dropped to the floor.

The building was a condemned complex, in the process of shoddy renovations, but it served as a shield just fine. Smoke and debris crept up through the window. Clint shrugged off the duffle that had miraculously managed to stay draped across his shoulder and pulled the window closed with his good arm.

Sirens permeated the gloom from outside; lights from the fire trucks reflected off the dust particles that Clint stirred up. He heard the spray of the hoses hiss on the lapping flames. He listened to the panicked voices of his neighbors, simultaneously pitying them and cursing them for abandoning him to his fate.

Black spots began to invade his vision.

Everything began to narrow and converge.

Clint shook his head and brought a now trembling hand to his wound. Blood loss made it significantly harder to function. He unsteadily unzipped his bag and rifled through for a moment. A sigh of pained relief bubbled to his lips as his fingers brushed against his makeshift first aid kit. He pulled off his white cotton shirt.

Clenching his jaw, he braced himself and saturated the wound with burning alcohol, convulsing violently in blind pain. Whimpers and strained yells slipped through the cracks in his clenched teeth. His hands were shaking completely now as he brought a bundle of gauze to his shoulder and haphazardly taped the sterile fabric to his bare skin.

The world still spun.

Exhausted, Clint sank back down to the floorboards, propped up against the wall beside the windowpane. He sank into a black unconsciousness comingled with gunfire and sirens and then absolutely nothing.

—Break—Break—Break—

Phil stared at the coffee machine with sheer annoyance. Junior agents who dared enter the break room as he prepared his third mid-day cup promptly fled at the sight of Agent Coulson. Although barely out of "junior status" himself, Phil had already proven himself to be one of the best—so quite frankly walking in on him yelling at the old coffee machine, brandishing a roll of paper towels, tie very distinctly awry, freaked everyone the hell out. As he finally—sullenly—poured the thick brown liquid into a cheap Styrofoam cup, a deep chuckle sounded from the doorway.

"This kid's got you running in circles, doesn't he?" Coulson shot a glare at the man leaning against the doorframe.

"Good morning Nick. How are you Nick? Go fuck yourself Nick." Phil darkly threw a crumpled napkin across the room, relishing in a slight sense of satisfaction as the paper struck the director square between the eyes. Or, Phil supposed, eye and eyepatch.

"Real mature," Fury droned drily, crossing his arms across his chest. "What exactly is the problem Phil?"

"I don't exactly know where to start, sir," Phil sighed, sinking into a metal seat. Nick joined him. "All I know is he fires arrows and is in the military. How the hell do you form a search pattern on just that?" Nick leaned back.

"You said bringing in this asset would be no problem Agent Coulson. You've worked for me long enough to know that I. Do. Not. Like. Problems." Phil glared at the raised eyebrow. Fury merely stared back. "Y'know Phil," Fury began, leaning forward again on his forearms. "Of all the agents who've worked for me in my years as director, none of them gets on my nerves so much as you."

"It's lucky I'm good at my job then sir." Nick chuckled.

"Nobody else has the guts to talk back. That's why I like you Agent Coulson." He rose. "You're not afraid of taking on difficulty." And with that, Fury just…left.

Phil huffed. "Was that supposed to be a pep talk?" he yelled at the retreating man before throwing his hands in the air in defeat. "Some help."

"A-agent Coulson?" Phil leveled his gaze at the trembling intern in the doorway. After an awkward pause, Phil raised his eyebrow. "O-oh. Um, you have a-a call. On line seven. In your office." Phil allowed for the silence to refill the room before nodding.

"Thank you Agent Davis." The young man nodded and nearly fled the room. Coulson strode through the hallway and swiped his ID card through the reader mounted on his office door. He swept in and sat down while simultaneously lifting the telephone from its receiver. "Special Agent Coulson."

"_Good afternoon, Agent, this is Detective Maria Hill from the Taylor case?"_ Phil wracked his brain, then answered.

"Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"

"_Well sir, apparently you never signed off on the body…or anything really. The chief didn't like that. So. I'm supposed to be asking you to sign."_

Phil groaned and rubbed his hand across his face. Paperwork was never really his strong suit. "Of course Detective Hill. Just—send me the file."

"_I'm afraid you'll have to come down here Agent Coulson. Rules and all."_

Coulson leaned back and stifled a vicious curse. "Yeah, okay, I'll drop by sometime tomorrow I guess." There was a slight pause. When Hill began to speak again, her voice was slow and uncharacteristically hesitant.

"_Agent Coulson? I know this isn't really protocol, but—well—I guess I was wondering how close you were to finding the man who did this. I mean, Tanner deserves to know."_ Phil smiled slightly.

"I'm afraid we're hitting a bit of a dead end detective," he admitted, surprising even himself with his willingness to admit that. "There's too little information, too many questions."

"_Well, he's—or was—in the military right?"_

"Yes, but nothing came up on the profiles of active or discharged members."

"_Well, what about MIA, KIA, or AWOL? This guy would need to be completely off the grid to kill like that. I'm willing to guess this isn't his first time is it?" _But Coulson didn't even bother responding. His fingers were flying across the keyboard, delving into the killed in action files with a renewed fervor. A flashing name suddenly was blinking in front of him. Sniper unit. Iraq. Desert Storm. IED explosion. Bodies charred beyond recognition or identification. He scrolled down to the picture beneath. A painfully young, distressingly empty face looked back at Phil and something ached within his chest. Trapped in the intense blue eyes was a sadness that couldn't really be ignored. Without glancing away from the face, Phil printed off the profile, picked back up the hand-held and cut Maria off midsentence.

"You really should consider a job here at SHIELD." And with that he pushed himself away from his desk and slammed the phone back onto its cradle. Striding through the hall, the sea of interns and junior agents seemed to part before him. With a triumphant flair, he pushed into the director's office.

"I need a jet." Fury looked up, fingers steepled against his chest.

"Where?"

"Waverly."

"What in the name of God is in Iowa?" Clint tossed the profile on the desk.

"Buck Chisholm."

—Break—Break—Break—

Clint's eyes snapped open. His right arm was trembling and throbbing in a dull pain. Heat emanated from his limb. He swallowed, wincing as the motion tore at the dryness of his throat. Slowly, he pushed himself up and crawled to the windowpane. Across the way, his old home lay in a smoldering pile of ash. A tight feeling pressed against his chest. For some reason he could not explain, his gaze was pulled to the tight cluster of police officers beneath the streetlamp. His eyes narrowed as he picked out a sickeningly familiar face.

The Boss.

A new strength washed over Clint as he watched the man shake the police chief's hand. He slipped out onto the fire escape once more, bringing a single arrow onto the wrought iron. He watched with burning eyes as the older man brazenly strode down the sidewalk, cockily alone. Clint slipped down the ladder with a nimble, silent grace.

Stalking always his best skill.

He weaved through the evening rush inconspicuously and unnoticed. Suddenly, he was on the rooftops, running past the man to the corner he knew the Boss would turn. Clint never accepted a job without knowing certain things.

He knew where each of his employers lived.

As the older man rounded the corner, Clint stepped from the shadows and slid the lone arrow into the soft flesh of his stomach. The Boss fell against him with a soft grunt, air quashed from his lungs. Clint grabbed a handful of his hair and thrust the man's head back to stare into disbelieving eyes.

"I—I killed you," the man whispered.

"Nobody's dead til you find a body." With a sharp twist, Clint snapped the man's neck. "You shouldn't have let me find Chris's."

—Break—Break—Break—

Waverly was dustier than Phil was used to. Dustier and grassier and significantly more overgrown. The government issue black SUV seemed distinctly out of place to the extent that Phil felt a creeping sense of self consciousness, maneuvering the large vehicle down dirt roads and winding paths. He glanced to the passenger seat where a folded white sheet of directions lay.

He turned down a gravel pathway. A complete feeling of confusion washed over him as tattered circus tents came into view. Old rusted cages sat stagnant on the ground. The wheels on the train cars had rusted into the ground; weeds weaved through the frames, protruding from the bolts.

Phil slowed the car to a creep. It was as if he were traveling through time. Through the graveyard of the assassin's past. Old, faded posters were still nailed to posts. Racks of what once were magnificent costumes sat rotting. Props were strewn on the ground. Phil blew a breath between his lips as a ramshackle hut came into view. Smoke rose from the chimney.

Coulson pulled the SUV over and stepped out, patent leather shoes crunching on the foliage beneath. He slowly moved to the front door, feeling at his hip for his sidearm. Something was churning in his gut—it just felt…wrong. With a decisiveness that he'd acquired over the years, Coulson removed his hand from the gun and just knocked on the door.

The door opened to reveal an old man with a white beard and hard grey eyes.

"What do you want? For the millionth fucking time, I ain't selling the damn property." Phil held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"I just want to talk to Buck Chisholm. Is he here?" The man crossed his arms over his chest.

"What do you want?" Phil faltered for a moment before repeating:

"Buck Chis-holm." The man's eyes narrowed at the condescension.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Phil frowned.

"You're him, aren't you?"

"No shit." Phil suppressed a groan.

"Then sir, I regret to inform you that someone has been using your identity to enlist in the military." A flicker escaped the man's eyes.

"Show me his picture." Phil recognized a silent desperation. Slowly, he pulled the face out of his pocket and watched as the older man remembered.

—Break—Break—Break—

_Clint sat on the step of the prop trailer, smoldering cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Smoke curled around his long blonde hair, his intense blue-grey eyes. His shoulders held a slight stoop to them, a far cry from the pride he generally portrayed._

"_Didn't know you smoked," came a gravelly, familiar voice from above. The sixteen year old didn't even flinch as his old mentor sank down beside him, settling on the grass just below the step. When Clint spoke, the hoarseness and hardness startled even him._

"_I don't. Just like to see the smoke." He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette as if punctuating his point. Buck sighed and rubbed his knees._

"_Pretty expensive way to see some fucking smoke."_

"_Yeah, well. Carson flipped his lid last time I lit some hay on fire behind the tent." Buck's soft laughter rolled through the warm summer's night, eliciting memories of the two practicing together by the light of the fireflies._

"_Almost forgot about that. Boss wasn't too happy. Came bitchin' to me 'bout my rowdy apprentice blah blah blah." The older man tossed a sideways glance at Clint out of the corner of his eye. The boy maintained his blank stare across the field, a twitch of his lips and the ghost of a smile the only indication that he heard. Buck sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Damn Clint, I fucking hated you."_

"_Well the feeling was mutual," Clint droned._

"_No it wasn't." And it wasn't even an argument, just a statement of fact._

"_What can I say, no survival instincts." Buck snorted._

"_Yeah." For a moment there was a deep pause. Buck struggled for the words. Clint struggled to stay still against the bandages wrapped around his torso. "It was jealousy kid." Clint allowed his eyes to snap to the older man for the first time._

"_What do you mean?"_

"_You're just so damn good at everything, that's what I mean." Clint dropped his eyes again._

"_I'm also so goddamn stupid."_

"_Yeah, but so what? Look. You're a goddamn kid. You're supposed to be stupid. Jesus Barton, you can't beat yourself up over this." Clint rose suddenly._

"_You're the one who said to be perfect at all times Buck! Well guess what? I fucked up! I fucked everything up! I couldn't even get the goddamn money back. I failed everything. I just—I just—"_

"_You thought you could trust your brother." Clint's hands dropped numbly to his side, his chin to his chest. Buck rose, but didn't embrace the teen. Clint wouldn't like that. _

"_I can't trust anyone Buck." Chisholm sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm._

"_Then trust yourself. You're a good kid Clint. I mean that." Clint's eyes were suddenly boring into Buck's soul, searching for deception. It always amazed the man how much Clint Barton could convey in one look. "You're leaving aren't you?" Clint shrugged._

"_Yeah."_

"_Don't expect you'd tell me where you were going huh?" A ghost of a smile traced itself along the boy's face._

"_Nah."_

"_Alright, just do me a favor. Take your damn bow and practice some more. You're good." Clint nodded. He bent and pulled a knapsack from underneath the trailer that Buck hadn't even noticed. Buck smiled against a foreign pain in his chest. Clint turned to leave, but was stopped by a sudden outburst. "I'm sorry Clint. I'm so fucking sorry." The boy turned. Buck was awkwardly wringing his hands. "You were always like a little brother to me." His voice was hoarse and Clint knew he was telling the truth. He slowly lowered the knapsack and walked towards Buck. As he embraced the archer, Buck felt slow tears roll down his face and onto the boy's fine blonde hair._

—Break—Break—Break—

"It wasn't until three hours after he left that I realized he'd lifted my ID. Left my wallet though." A fond, wry grin lifted the left corner of the man's face. "That was the first time he'd ever hugged me too."

"He was sixteen then?" Phil's voice was soft.

"Yep. Three years ago." The agent mulled over the implications. Nineteen fucking years old. "He's not in any trouble is he?" Phil flashed a wan smile.

"Trying to get him out. Thank you Mr. Chisholm." Phil shook the man's hand and strode out the door and into the bleakness of the SUV. As he maneuvered the car into drive, and as he wondered still where to begin, his pocket began buzzing. "Coulson."

"_It's Hill again." _This time, there were no pretenses of formality. _"The Boss is dead. Arrow to the gut, neck broken. It's him again. He's still here." _A wave of excitement, rather than dread, rolled through Phil.

"I'll be there."

—Break—Break—Break—

_**AN: Hey! Sorry for the late update. Please review and tell me what you think, good or bad! I know Phil is kinda OOC, but I think that having Clint as his "charge" really will mellow him out. Thanks for reading! **_


End file.
